


Break the lock on my own garden gate

by belmanoir



Series: I used to live here [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Canon Compliant through 2x09, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy's been waiting for Oliver to rescue him. Oliver does, even if it's by accident. <i>"I woke up in an evil fake ambulance. They said I'd been pronounced dead at the scene." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Break the lock on my own garden gate

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** brief description of torture.
> 
> Thank you to Sonia, my partner in crime.
> 
> The title is from "Genesis 3:23" by the Mountain Goats.

Tommy is struggling unsuccessfully to do a sixth push-up when the commotion starts. Is this it? His rescue? He listens carefully, trying to distinguish sounds, but the door of his cell is heavy and he can't. Was that the whistle of an arrow? Probably not, but he stands up and faces the door anyway because whatever the commotion is, it's coming closer.

The door splinters around the lock and swings inward with a whoosh and a groan of hinges. Oliver is silhouetted in the doorway in his hood, bow drawn.

Tommy's been waiting for this. He's done his best to heal and stay in shape so he'd be ready, pacing the six feet square of his cell and doing--okay, doing five push-ups at a time, but they don't feed him a lot and he hasn't been outside and there's just only so much you can do. His heart pounds hard enough to make him light-headed and shaky. 

Oliver lowers his bow, glancing around the cell. "Who are you? Why have they been keeping you here?" It's so obviously Ollie's voice despite the voice changer, its rhythm and inflection painfully familiar. Tommy doesn't understand how he ever thought it sounded like a stranger. He puts a hand on the wall to steady himself. 

But he's imagined this moment hundreds of thousands of times over the last however long. He knows his line. "It's me. About fucking time you showed up." His smile starts in the middle of the sentence and doesn't stop. "How long has it been, anyway? There aren't any clocks in here." His throat hurts. They don't give him a ton of water either, and vocal cords don't get much use in solitary confinement.

Oliver doesn't move. He doesn't speak. Tommy can't really see his face. Then he says, "Tommy?" There's an uncertain lilt in the deep, digital voice.

Tommy is so happy to see him that there's a tight burn behind his sternum like anger. "Yeah. You found me. Good job. So let's get the hell out of here, okay?"

"Am I hallucinating again?"

Shit. What's wrong with Oliver? Has he been drugged? He comes forward and peers over Oliver's shoulder. The corridor is littered with bodies. No witnesses. Evil backup must be on its way and every nerve Tommy has is screaming to get out of there, but he reaches up and pushes back the hood. "Were you hallucinating before? Turn around and tilt your head up." Oliver does, the light falling on his face. He seems steady as a rock apart from how he's staring at Tommy, eyes huge inside the greasepaint. They do look bloodshot and dilated, but it's an emotional moment and this place is dimly lit. Tommy checks the corridor again. Clearly his ability to fight isn't impaired. "You don't look high to me. Describe what you see and I'll tell you if it's what's here."

Oliver makes a weird sound. "I see my dead best friend." 

Tommy's disappointment is so intense it's like someone put a bag over his head. Oliver isn't here for him. Oliver thought he was dead.

Oliver came for him anyway. "Surprise," Tommy says, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "That's what's here. You're not hallucinating."

Oliver doesn't move. He doesn't say anything. Okay. His dead best friend isn't dead. Tommy knows from experience that that one packs a wallop. Since it turns out he's the only one who's been fantasizing about this moment, it's up to him to get them through it. "I'll explain later. Can you get us out of here?" At the words _out of here,_ it starts to feel like a possibility. Like something he can't bear to lose. "Please get us out of here."

Oliver still doesn't move.

"Short version: I woke up in an evil fake ambulance. They said I'd been pronounced dead at the scene."

"I went to your funeral."

"I went to yours." They need to move. Tommy tries to think. "It wasn't an open casket, right? I put it in my will I didn't want one." He had nightmares about his mother's wake for years.

Oliver's eyes focus. Abruptly, he switches back on. "Get behind me." Pulling his hood up, Oliver leads him down the corridor. As they go, Tommy realizes that most, maybe all of these guys are still breathing. That's unexpected. Kind of nice, though. Even though he hates them all, after who knows how long in here with them he wouldn't really enjoy seeing their corpses. He keeps a careful eye on them to make sure they aren't waking up. Probably he should take one of their guns but what if the guy opened his eyes while Tommy was crouched over him?

Oliver pushes the back door open and reconnoiters. Cold air rushes in and suddenly Tommy is afraid to go outside. They'll be exposed and vulnerable to attack. He hesitates. 

Oliver turns and looks at him, reaching up with one hand to turn off his voice changer. "Come on," he says gently. "You can do it."

Tommy attempts a nonchalant smile. "Just wishing I had my shoes." It's not a lie. He has absolutely no calluses left on his feet and when he breezes past Oliver and out the door, the rough asphalt hurts like a bitch. He shivers, overwhelmed by how much space there is. He can see stars. _Stars._ God, it's incredible. Wherever they are smells like diesel and it's cold and he's in bare feet and a t-shirt, but he gulps in air anyway, knees a little wobbly. The stars press in on him, making him weirdly more claustrophobic than his tiny cell.

"Our hotel is only a few blocks away," Oliver says, still in that gentle voice. "Can you walk that far?" 

Tommy nods, rubbing at his arms. The chilly ground feels like it's burning the soles of his feet right off.

Oliver hesitates, his gloved hands rising to his zipper. Tommy realizes that Oliver is thinking about whether it's safe to show his face by giving Tommy his jacket.

"I'll be fine. You should keep that in case anyone comes after us."

Oliver nods and pulls out his phone. Dialing 911, he gives the operator their location. "If you come quickly, you can arrest eleven low-level members of H.I.V.E. Tell them to take plenty of back-up and be careful." 

He leads the way through deserted streets. The silence is oppressive. The silence has been oppressive for...Tommy thinks it's safe to say months. But he can't speak. The thoughts are still there, whizzing along, but it's as if the wire between his brain and his mouth has been disconnected. _You were talking just fine in there,_ he reminds himself, but that was information he had to communicate and this is chit-chat and apparently it's different. Chit-chat is Tommy's favorite thing in the world after sex. He decides to say just one thing, just to see if that would break the ice, but the words don't come out. Anything he said would be too loud. He wishes Oliver would say something. Would talk like he used to, excited and waving his hands and laughing at his own jokes.

But Oliver doesn't say anything. Since the island, Tommy sometimes feels as if Oliver actually absorbs sound, as if the soundwaves of Tommy's voice hit him and stop waving. Is Tommy going to be like that now? Is the wire snapped forever? Who even is he, without his flow of words? He liked who he was. Mostly.

Something rattles a garbage can on his left and he jumps out of his skin.

Oliver glances back at him, aiming his bow at the can. "How does raccoon sound for dinner?"

Tommy's startled laugh is jarringly loud to his own ears. When sirens start howling, back in the direction they came from, he has to fight the urge to clutch at Oliver like Laurel at a horror movie.

Oliver prowls ahead of him across the parking lot of his...well, it's a motel, not a hotel, which is practical for secret missions but Tommy can see why Oliver avoided saying the word. It's not one either of them has used a lot. He lets them into a room on the end of a row, doing a quick search of every corner before shutting the door and putting the chain on. He leans back against the door, eyes on Tommy, then pushes himself up again, turning away. "I have to change and call Diggle. I'll get you some clothes too."

The room is freaking Tommy out for no real reason. It's both too big and too small. He wants to turn on the TV and is afraid to at the same time. Besides, he might get spoiled for _Breaking Bad._

He's really excited about the beds, though. Low-threadcount sheets and scratchy blankets and all, they're going to be the most luxurious thing he's felt in a while. "Yeah, sure. I'm gonna use the bathroom."

There weren't any mirrors where he was. Looking at his reflection, he realizes it's no wonder Oliver is so spooked. His hair is awful and he has, like, a full beard. Which he knew, obviously, but that's different than seeing it. He's also too thin and even pastier than normal. There are circles under his eyes, and the scar on his cheekbone from where his dad hit him is a shiny, silvery pink. Oliver's clothes are going to hang off him.

He doesn't want to look like this. He wants to look like himself. He opens the door and pokes his head out. "Hey, Oliver?"

Oliver is sitting on the edge of the bed in a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, greasepaint gone, his phone in his hands. He starts and looks up. "Yeah?"

"Did you call Diggle?"

Oliver starts again. "No. Um. What did you need?"

"You didn't bring clippers with you by any chance, did you?"

"Yeah, I did." He digs through his suitcase and produces his clippers. "I just have the number two guard with me, is that okay?"

"Yeah, thanks," Tommy says with minimal eye contact and ducks back into the bathroom.

Turning the clippers on freaks him out. Apparently everything freaks him out now. Great. If Laurel ever takes him back she's going to have to be really fucking patient. If she isn't already with Oliver. With the clippers buzzing, he can't hear Oliver in the next room anymore. Would he hear it if the front door opened?

Will they come after him? Or is he safe now?

He squares his shoulders and raises the clippers to his chin. But that brings them closer to his ears, blocking out even more noise from the next room. He gives in and switches them off. Oliver's muffled voice calms him right away. He opens the door in time to hear Felicity shriek into the phone, _That's amazing!_ Oliver winces and holds the phone away from his ear, but he grins, the first sign of actual happiness Tommy's seen from him. "Yeah, it is, Felicity," he says fondly, "but we've talked about how important my eardrums are to my work."

Jealousy punches Tommy in the stomach. Is Oliver even still his best friend? He can't remember the last time Oliver seemed comfortable around him. He kept telling himself it was just because of the island, because of Laurel, because of the vigilante. But maybe not.

"I'm fine," Oliver says earnestly into the phone. "Why wouldn't I be fine? This is the best thing that's happened to me in six years. Hey, could you order us some takeout?"

"I want Chinese," Tommy says.

Oliver looks up, his smile fading. He shakes his head. "It'll make you sick. Your stomach has to readjust. Order chicken soup or something, Felicity....yeah. Yeah, I'll check in in the morning. Thanks." He slips the phone into his back pocket. "Did the clippers not work?"

Tommy hesitates. "I, um. I didn't like that I couldn't hear someone coming."

Oliver nods as if that isn't strange at all. "Okay. Just use that mirror." He points at the one over the dresser.

"But then _you_ won't be able to hear anyone coming."

"We could open the blinds."

Tommy shakes his head.

"If someone comes, they'll probably be quiet anyway. I don't need that much warning." He goes into the bathroom and comes back with a couple of towels, spreading one carefully on the floor in front of the dresser and arranging the other over Tommy's shoulders. He gives Tommy's upper arm a short, awkward squeeze before retreating to the bed, laying his bow across his thighs and leaning his quiver against his knee. "Go ahead. I got this."

So Tommy cuts his hair, all that he can reach. His hands are a little shaky and he's never used clippers before, it's razors and salons for him all the way, so it takes him a while to get it even. But every time he looks self-consciously at Oliver, Oliver's eyes are on the door. "Can you do the back?" Tommy asks.

Oliver comes over, setting his bow and quiver on the dresser and taking the clippers. He puts his fingertips on Tommy's head to tilt it forwards. Tommy takes in a deep breath and shuts his eyes. It feels really, really nice. It feels amazing, actually, to know that someone is this close to him and definitely won't hurt him. Tommy knows he can't just curl up against Oliver's warm, broad chest and go to sleep, but he really wishes he could.

"I didn't like getting my hair cut after the island," Oliver says. "It made me feel naked, like everyone could see me. The last time my hair was this short was what, fifth grade?" He runs his thumb up the back of Tommy's neck, testing the length. Tommy's eyes sting.

"Sixth grade. You grew it out because you wanted to look like Nick Carter. You eventually succeeded."

"Don't remind me." Oliver turns off the clippers.

Well, his new designer stubble look is a little too Oliver for comfort, and the close-cropped hair is weird given that he's had the same haircut for a really long time now. But it's a lot better. Like maybe he can lift his head and look Oliver in the eye. You know, eventually. In a few minutes. "I bet Diggle and Felicity would love to see pictures of you in high school."

Oliver grimaces and makes a sort of resigned grunt.

"I'm going to take a shower. Be right back." The shower is the same problem as the clippers, too loud, but it's also consistently hot with decent water pressure, and no one's going to come in and shut it off if he takes longer than three minutes. The water sluices reassuringly over his skin, and he literally moans when he realizes that tomorrow he can take a hot bath. He can read in the tub. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. 

He soaps up every inch of himself. He'll have to borrow Oliver's moisturizer because this will give him dry skin for sure, but he doesn't want to smell like that place. Then he jerks off as quietly as he can. It doesn't take long, and he feels about a million times better. It's his first orgasm since his abduction that wasn't a wet dream. Privacy, Kleenex, and washing machines were all in short supply where he was being held. 

He can't bring himself to put his clothes back on. They're not his clothes, anyway, just what he's been wearing. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he heads into the bedroom. Oliver glances up and freezes.

"What?" Tommy looks down and sees the pink, raised knot of scar tissue on his chest. "Oh. Yeah, I got one too now. Two, if you count the one in back separately." He rubs the ridge on his cheekbone. "Well, three, I guess."

When he looks back up, Oliver is in his personal space, eyes still fixed on the scar. His fingers come up and hover over it, an inch away. For a weird second Tommy thinks Oliver is going to kiss it or something. But he's not sure where the thought came from other than the murky depths of his subconscious, because Oliver just turns away and points to his suitcase. "Take whatever you want."

Tommy picks out cargo pants and a hoodie. Time to dive back into this talking thing. "There's something funny to me about you wearing a hoodie," he says with an effort. It isn't a very interesting thought. He probably wouldn't even share it normally, but that's not the point. He _can_ share it now. With Oliver. "Are you ever worried people will recognize your jawline if they see you in it?"

Oliver blinks. "Not really." 

The inside of the hoodie is soft and forgiving against his skin. He rubs it against his cheek without thinking, and out of the corner of his eye sees Oliver turn his head away in embarrassment. Whatever, he missed clothes. He thinks about his shirts and zip-up sweaters and actually salivates. He hopes no one's cleared out his closet yet.

Once Tommy is dressed, Oliver apparently decides he can start asking questions, because he sits on the edge of the bed and leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. "You've been gone for eight months."

Eight months. Jesus.

"Do you know why they were holding you?"

Tommy glances away. "Leverage on my dad." He doesn't mention that they tortured him a little first to see if he knew anything useful. He didn't. Not about his dad, anyway. His stomach contracts, remembering fingers in the hole in his chest.

Oliver's face goes completely blank. "Your dad."

"I know, right? He must be in prison, what does anyone need leverage on him for? Besides, I'm not sure how good of leverage I even am." He kind of assumed, until they told him otherwise, that his dad had kidnapped him for leverage on _Oliver_. He doesn't mention that either. "I didn't tell them anything about you, if that's what you're wondering."

Oliver looks him squarely in the eye. "Your dad's dead, Tommy."

Tommy frowns. "What? What happened to him?"

"I shoved an arrow directly into his heart."

Tommy feels sick. He's not even sure he could swallow chicken soup, even though he's pretty sure he's really, really hungry. "When?"

"About twenty minutes before I showed up at Laurel's office." 

Tommy's heart sinks. "So you lied to me."

Shouldn't he be more upset about his dad being dead than Oliver lying to him? Shouldn't he be less upset about his dad being dead? He knows his dad would have killed Oliver. He almost did kill Laurel, not to mention loads of other people. Like Robert Queen. Tommy's been thinking about that a lot. So why does he still feel bad? Why does he still think, _If I could have just got through to him...if I'd said something different in that fight we had when I was twelve...if I'd...._?

Panic hits him, so strong his gorge rises. "Laurel." He has to swallow a couple of times before he can say anything else. "You told me I got Laurel out. Was that--" 

"That was the truth," Oliver says hastily. "Laurel's fine." He hesitates. "Well. Physically she's fine."

Tommy sits on his own bed with a thump, shaky and hollow with receding adrenaline. He knows from experience that Laurel grieves hard. He can't believe he did that to her. He can't believe he got himself fake killed right after really hurting her feelings. What an asshole.

Oliver turns his head away. A muscle jumps in his jaw. "I thought--I thought the shock might be bad for you. I was going to tell you about him when"--his voice breaks. He swallows and keeps going. "When you were feeling better."

Yeah, right. He only had Tommy's best interests at heart. Maybe Oliver even believes that. "You know, if I had a nickel for every time you've lied to me, I'd have my trust fund back."

Oliver nods. The way he has his head turned exposes the pulse point below his ear. It doesn't just look like avoiding eye contact. It looks like surrender.

"You fight everything," Tommy says. The wire to his mouth seems like it might be connected again, and maybe he shouldn't say this but he's spent a lot of time over the past eight months thinking about all the reasons he's mad at Oliver and it feels really good to let a few of them out. "But you never fight for our friendship. Why is that?"

Oliver looks back, his eyes burning into Tommy. "I don't fight everything. Diggle walked out on me a while back. It took me weeks to apologize. Even though..." He sets his jaw. "I really missed him." His voice scrapes. Maybe that's the closest Oliver can come to saying _I really missed you._ He's always avoided Tommy when Tommy's angry at him. Oliver hates it when he's angry. 

Of course, maybe that's because when Tommy's angry, he always says the meanest thing he can think of. And he can think of really mean things.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was the vigilante," Oliver says. "I just--I wanted something in my life that wasn't about the island." There's a faint heaviness to how he says _something_. As if all the things he's done since he got back, the girls he's dated and the friends he's made, the lives he's saved, his whole glamorous crimefighting murdering career, he just looks at them and sees _island_. Tommy didn't realize. Oliver didn't seem like he used to but he seemed...okay. 

Well. No, he hadn't. Tommy knew that. He just pretended he didn't because he didn't know what the fuck to do about it. "Then you came to the wrong place, didn't you? Because it was my dad who sent you there." 

He was so angry at Oliver. And he figured out one long, sleepless, obsessive night that it wasn't because Oliver lied, or because Laurel liked the vigilante, or because Oliver killed people. It was because he didn't feel safe anymore. Because if Oliver was the vigilante, then everything in Tommy's life was suddenly frightening and dangerous. But it's the other way around, isn't it? Tommy made Oliver's life into the mess that it is. Terror was in Tommy's house all along. His dad sent Oliver to that island and made him into this. 

It was his dad who hurt Tommy, who got him kidnapped and tortured, who was a serial killer. Not Oliver.

Oliver shakes his head. "Nothing he did is your fault."

"He isn't dead."

"He is, Tommy."

"He isn't. Those people said he wasn't."

"They were wrong. They have to be wrong."

"You thought _I_ was dead."

Oliver closes his eyes. "Yeah." 

At first Tommy thinks he's just being emotional about his supposed death again. But Oliver looks at his bow and says tightly, "Shit." His eyes fly to Tommy. "I mean." He doesn't finish the sentence, and Tommy suddenly realizes that he's afraid of Tommy's dad. All his life he thought he was just weak and pathetic, and Oliver is scared of his dad too.

Tommy spent a lot of time while he was a prisoner thinking about Oliver. And not just that Oliver was coming to get him. However bad it got, he thought to himself, _Oliver went through this, and he made it. This is something a person can survive._ He imagined Oliver hungry, and thirsty, and sick and cold and in pain. But somehow it never occurred to him that Oliver had been terrified. That Oliver might have been embarrassed or miserable or desperate for someone who loved him to touch him.

He remembers suddenly Oliver's welcome home party, and how he tried to talk Oliver into picking up Carmen Golden. He really wishes he hadn't done that. The last thing he wants right now is sex with someone he's never seen before. 

"You know, I thought a lot about you coming to get me, the last eight months."

Oliver looks at Tommy. Taking a deep breath, he says gently, earnestly, "I'm sorry. I would have if I knew."

Tommy knows that voice. It's one of Oliver's girlfriend voices, the ones he used to use to convince girls that he had a heart of gold, that he could be different with them. He realizes Oliver was using it on the phone with Felicity too. When he said, _I'm fine._

"I know that. I never thought about my dad finding me." He fusses with the hood of his sweatshirt so that it rubs softly against the nape of his neck.

Oliver doesn't say anything.

"Well. I thought about it once or twice, and it scared me more than staying where I was." 

Oliver sighs.

"After I broke up with Laurel, she came to Merlyn Global to see me. To try to get me back."

"She was always the bravest of the three of us."

Tommy laughs. "Definitely. She said that whatever problems I thought we had, if we faced them together, and talked about them...but instead of doing that, like a fucking grown-up, I threw a tantrum and ran away from home and said I wished you were dead, like a four-year-old."

Oliver's mouth tightens. He looks at Tommy, eyes bright and red-rimmed, and suddenly Tommy really doesn't want to be having this conversation, because this is that look Oliver gets like he's about to crack into a million pieces and Tommy knows he won't know what to say and he won't know how to put Oliver back together so he wants to just cram it all back into Oliver. He's weak and hungry and he's not up to this. 

"Sometimes I wish I would have died on the island too," Oliver says, his voice rough with sincerity.

Tommy swallows. He shakes his head. "No."

Oliver stands up, as if he's going to do or say something else, but he doesn't.

"No," Tommy says, stronger. "I--" But he did mean it. He always means it, just for a second. "I have never been happier about anything than you coming home."

Oliver presses his lips together, like he thinks the end of that sentence is _at first_.

"Don't leave me again." That isn't what he meant to say, he meant to say that in a way that wasn't weird or clingy, in a way that would make Oliver feel better. He wishes he were less tired and less out of practice at communicating. Not that he was ever really in practice at that. "Please."

"I won't." Oliver's mouth curls up. "I promise." Something about the way he says it really creeps Tommy out. Like he's an alien wearing an Oliver suit and trying doggedly to pass as human, but instead of being full of cockroaches, he's full of depression.

For a second Tommy almost suggests they go out clubbing. He missed music. After Laurel and Oliver, the thing he fantasized about most was his iPod. Maybe he could just ask to borrow Oliver's iPod and they could sit around and not talk. They can talk later. Tommy's been through a lot. Oliver will still be there later. He just promised that he would be.

Why doesn't being scared get easier with practice? Tommy's starting to get a really bad adrenaline headache but whatever, Oliver will catch him if he passes out.

He stands up. Then he awkwardly maneuvers a feet or so away, because the width of a night table between the beds puts them too close to focus his eyes on Oliver's face. "We used to be best friends. I want that back."

"Me too," Oliver says hoarsely. Tommy's pretty sure he means it.

"I wanted it to be like it was, you know? I wanted you to be like you were, because that's what you were like when we were best friends. But we're never going to be twenty-two again. And the thing is, we were little shits when we were twenty-two. We weren't even that good at being best friends. I think we can do better now."

Oliver smiles crookedly. "You mean if we're honest and talk about things?"

"Yeah."

Oliver makes a grossed-out noise. "I hate doing that."

Tommy laughs. His throat hurts. This is the most he's talked at a stretch in eight months. "Me too, pal. We're big boys now, we'll have to suck it up."

"Okay." Oliver holds himself very still. "So you're definitely coming back to Starling City then? I just--I don't know if I can keep you safe." He says it like a confession. Like he was supposed to make sure Tommy never got trapped in a collapsing building or had a serial killer dad and he fucked it up.

"I'll have to take my chances." 

"Laurel really misses you."

Tommy wonders if he should call her right now, or if this is more of an in person thing, or if he should have Oliver warn her. It would be kind of nice if she could cycle through the freakout into happiness before he saw her. He doesn't want her face to crumple when she sees him. But maybe that's unavoidable. She'll hug him either way. He misses her hugs, and the way her hair clings to his jacket with static electricity.

But that's Oliver's weird, earnest _I'm trying to be cool about Tommy and Laurel_ voice. It's like that girlfriend voice only stiffer, and Tommy heard it a lot last year. "I can't be with Laurel, Oliver."

"There's nothing between us. It was just the one time. A--you know, like--" Oliver transparently casts around for an explanation of how you could give your best friend a pep-talk about getting his girlfriend back and then sleep with her the same day. Maybe Tommy _should_ just assume a new identity and go live somewhere where his best friend isn't completely broken.

"I can't be with Laurel and lie to her," he says, before Oliver can say something like _it was just to get it out of our system_. "And I mean lie _all the time_. This isn't the kind of thing that doesn't come up in conversation. That's why I really broke up with her, because I couldn't see a way forward. Because I couldn't look at her." He's a good liar, but not to people he loves. Oliver was the one who was good at that, who could feed his parents the most implausible line of bullshit in the world with such blithe intensity that they believed it in self-defense. Whereas Tommy's dad just had to look at him and mostly he cracked. Luckily his dad didn't bother to actually look at him most of the time.

Oliver looks away. "I can't tell Laurel my secret, Tommy. I can't."

"I know." 

There's a long pause. "Would you?"

"What?"

"Would you tell her? When I'm not there?" He huffs a laugh. "Preferably when I'm on the other side of town." 

Tommy blinks. "Are you serious?"

Oliver nods. 

Wow. "Yeah. Sure. If you're sure."

"Thanks."

"You and me haven't--um. We haven't hugged a lot since you were back. You know, things got weird, with Laurel and everything. And probably you have personal space issues now, or something. But do you think--?"

"Of course," Oliver says instantly. 

Tommy's first hug in eight months starts out as Oliver hugging _him_ , gathering him into a protective, reassuring embrace as uncomplicated as a latte on an icy, exhausted morning. Tommy shuts his eyes and breathes in the smell of leather and expensive detergent. But Oliver's grip tightens until Tommy has to work to get enough air. He catches a choked-off sniffle, and suddenly he's the one hugging Oliver.

"Hey," he says, startled, giving Oliver's back a questioning rub. Oliver shudders. He's definitely crying. Tommy kind of thinks he should be the one crying, what with having just been broken out of captivity and everything.

"I'm sorry," Oliver says, and tries to pull away. 

Tommy hangs on. "Don't apologize." Maybe he is crying, because he has to stop and swallow snot to finish the sentence. "You don't have to apologize. I missed you."

Oliver takes in a heaving, heartbroken breath and relaxes against Tommy. A hot, soggy patch spreads on Tommy's shoulder. Tommy's avoided this for a really long time, but it isn't bad, actually. It feels good, like it's something he might actually be able to handle. Like maybe he can handle more than he thought he could. Maybe feeling safe is a sorry second place to facing things. 

Maybe running away never made him feel safe at all.


End file.
